


suck my kiss.

by katarama



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Enemy Lovers, Face-Fucking, Hook-Up, M/M, Oral Sex, Prostitution, Sex Work, Sex Worker Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 12:16:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5967118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katarama/pseuds/katarama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t want your hands,” Jackson reiterates.  Stiles reaches into his pocket for his keys, because he’s not playing this game.  He knows he’s attractive, and listening to Jackson tell him how unattracted to him he is sounds like one of the least appealing things to do with his time.  “I want,” Jackson says, and pauses before the rest of the words come tumbling out of his mouth, anger and desperation giving each word bite.  “I want your dick.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	suck my kiss.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ericaismeg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ericaismeg/gifts).



If asked what he wanted to do when he grew up, even a five-year-old Stiles, who stuck with “riding whales in the Nile River” for a solid two weeks, would not have come up with this.  Granted, five-year-old Stiles didn’t know what sex was.  And even now, Stiles isn’t really _grown up_.  He’s still in school, which is exactly the problem.

Scholarships cover a lot, but college textbooks are expensive, and so are hospital bills.

Besides, it’s not like it’s an everyday kind of thing.  And it’s not even like he actively sought it out.  Erica dresses him one time before he goes to the bar, picks out something she says looks good and Stiles thinks looks silly.  She talks him into wearing it, though, and he makes it all the way to the bar before he realizes it is a terrible idea.  He sits down on a stool and tries to fake like he belongs there and isn’t resting on a shitty fake Danny laughed at the first time he saw it.  

Stiles starts talking to the guy next to him, a guy who looks a couple years older who keeps glancing down at Stiles’ nips through his mesh shirt.  Stiles is hoping the way he’s talking somewhat resembles flirting, because he wants this guy to buy him a drink so he doesn’t even have to use his fake, but it goes in a different direction than he plans..

“How much for the night?” the guy asks during a lull in the conversation, and Stiles laughs.

“You think I don’t have the money?” Bar Dude asks, offended, and Stiles realizes he’s serious.  Stiles balks for a minute, because this is Very Much not what he had in mind.  Upon second thought, it doesn’t bother him so much.  His wallet is empty and he /has/ had sex with dudes, just enough times that he’s confident he won’t bite anyone’s dick off.  

So Stiles spits out a number, and when the guy asks if that’s really his going rate, Stiles ups it $50, hoping that that’s not too much.  

From the way the guy looks at him, it’s still not enough, but Stiles doesn’t really have anything to go on there, and when the guy realizes he’s gonna get cheap sex, he rolls with it.  He calls a taxi, and Stiles works on pumping himself up for this and not dwelling on the fact that he maybe didn’t think this through very well and maybe might be potentially serial murdered by the time the night’s over.

“Lemme text my, uh…” Stiles scrambles for a word that sounds like something someone who did this as a job and isn’t just a nervous 19-year-old boy would say.  “My contact.”

“Whatever,” the guy says, and Stiles sends off a frantic text to Malia letting them know he won’t be home.  He sneaks a photo of the guy for Malia to know who to find if Stiles doesn’t make it home safely.

Stiles does.  He makes it home with a sore ass and a wad of cash in his wallet, enough to cover a good chunk of rent for the month.  He’s overall pretty happy with how the night goes.  The time after they finish fucking is a little bit awkward, but that’s kind of par for the course with Stiles.  Stiles is always awkward, and the guy doesn’t seem to mind too much.

So Stiles finds clients at the bar every once in a while, when a big bill is coming that he knows he can’t afford.  Sometimes it’s just cramming into the tight quarters of the bar bathroom and getting down on his knees.  Other times it’s going home with someone, which he learns from the internet means he can charge a little bit more, a ‘bar fee’ for leaving the safety of the indoors.  He gets better at it, though, at getting someone interested and flirting and waiting until just the right moment to drop the price.  It doesn’t always work.  Not everyone’s interested in paying for sex.  It happens just enough, though, that Stiles is set.

It gets even easier when he realizes that there are better, less risky ways than hitting up strangers.  It’s as incidental as his first time hooking; a friend of a friend pays for a blowjob at the bar, and the friend finds him after class one day to talk about it, shyly asking if he does private sessions outside of bars or clubs.  

It turns out that the friend of a friend method works well.  There are more college kids than Stiles would expect who think that a night or an hour with a sex worker is a great birthday present, a step up from a private dance at a strip club.  There’s always a bunch of people he sort of kind of vaguely knows who drop him a line during finals period, to ‘relieve some stress’ or ‘take a break from studying’ and slip some cash in his pocket to get blown on their dorm room beds.  

Stiles probably should be more bothered than he is by the fact that him having sex for money has spread so quickly, but it doesn’t really bother him.  As long as none of his teachers say anything and no one reports him, he’s good.   He’s getting to having sex on the regular, and he’s getting paid for it.  Sure, he could honestly use a few more orgasms for himself while he’s working, and he really could do with a lot less of people tugging at his hair.  

He does actually meet some cool people, though.  There’s a guy in his apartment, one floor up, Scott, who always orders pizza for when Stiles comes over.  Once the hour runs out, they hang out and play video games together, and when Stiles realizes they’re in the same English course together, they become study buddies.  He spends the night twice with a sweet girl who confides in Stiles after he eats her out that she’s worried the boy she likes won’t like her back because she has a dick.  When Scott drops in the morning after to steal some sugar and Kira’s eyes go wide and cheeks go pink, Stiles realizes what’s going on.  He doesn’t take Kira’s money anymore after that, and he pulls a few strings to get the two of them out on a date together.

Not everyone is Scott or Kira, but most of the people he’s with aren’t assholes, most being the operative word.  Out of all the people he’s banging, though, there has to be an exception to prove the rule.  

Stiles’ just so happens to be a very familiar face.

* * *

 

When Danny seeks Stiles out and mentions Stiles’ side business, Stiles thinks he’s finally gonna get to see if Danny was lying about being a cuddler.  He’s actually pretty pumped about it; he’s always thought Danny was hot, and with Danny being one of the few out dudes in their year, Stiles thought about sex with him plenty.  Stiles wants to lick the skin by Danny’s collarbones, where the v-necks he always seemed to wear show skin.

Stiles doesn’t dress himself up too much before he goes to the apartment where Danny told him to be.  He takes a long shower to make sure he’s clean.  He almost puts on cologne, but he decides to try to play it cool.  They both know he isn’t cool, but he wants to seem a little bit like he gained _some_  chill since he graduated Beacon Hills.  It’s within walking distance, but Stiles drives anyway, because starting out a job already sweaty and smelly from walking sounds less than ideal.

When Stiles buzzes into the apartment, he goes up to the third floor and knocks.  Danny opens the door after the second knock, and Stiles mentally prepares himself, trying to think of something cool to say.

That’s when he realizes that Danny is wearing a coat and has his keys in his hands.

“Are we going somewhere else?” Stiles asks, confused.  He has had a client go the cheap motel room route before, but most of his clients are college students who don’t have the shame or the extra funds to spend on a room for the night just to be with a sex worker.

“ _I_ am,” Danny says, grinning.  “I’ve got a date.”

“I don’t…”

“Oh, here,” Danny says, holding out a wad full of cash for Stiles.  “Have fun tonight, dude.”

Stiles enters the apartment, apprehensive at best.  He wonders what Danny would do if he just took the money and ran; Stiles doesn’t do the whole mystery client thing.  He likes to know who he’s working with.

When he enters the kitchen and sees cheekbones and dirty blonde hair and nipples poking through a thin shirt, Stiles almost does just take the money and go.  Jackson is sitting at the table, his arms crossed in front of his chest and his face bearing his trademark You’re Probably Not Worth My Time expression, with bonus eyebrows.

“You,” Stiles says, equally unimpressed.  “Danny wants us to fuck.”

Jackson just stares at Stiles, raising an eyebrow distastefully at Stiles’ skintight jeans.  “Okay, no.”  Stiles says.  “This doesn’t work this way.  You can have your money back.  I don’t have sex with people I’m not sure actually want a piece of this.  Have fun with your hand, dude, since apparently mine aren’t what you want.”  Stiles reaches into his pocket to grab the cash and put it on the table, but Jackson stops him.

“I don’t want your hands.”

“Right,” Stiles says.  Stiles is going to have to wring Danny’s neck for this later, because Stiles has literally no idea why he thought this would be a good idea.  Stiles and Jackson aren’t so far out from high school, and it isn’t exactly like they got along then.  “I’ll be heading out, then.  Nice to see you, hope your douchebag life’s going terrib-”

“I don’t want your _hands_ ,” Jackson reiterates.  Stiles reaches into his pocket for his keys, because he’s not playing this game.  He knows he’s attractive, and listening to Jackson tell him how unattracted to him he is sounds like one of the least appealing things to do with his time.  “I want,” Jackson says, and pauses before the rest of the words come tumbling out of his mouth, anger and desperation giving each word bite.  “I want your dick.”

Stiles stills.  “My dick,” he says, the words taking ages to sink in.  It’s almost impossible for him to reconcile those words with what he knows about Jackson, but the way Jackson’s arms are folded in front of his chest, almost defensively, makes Stiles suspect he’s not lying.  “You want my dick.”

“Do you need me to repeat it again more slowly?” Jackson asks.  “I.  Want.  Your.  Dick.  I want your dick in my fucking mouth.”

“You technically didn’t repeat that last part,” Stiles says.  “That part was actually new, so-”

“Look, are you gonna do this or not?” Jackson asks.  “Because if not, I have better things to do than waste my time talking to you.”

It honestly is less of a consideration than it should be.  “If you want to pay to suck my dick, I’m not going to say no.”

“Then hurry up and get your pants off,” Jackson says, and Stiles is rushing to comply.

* * *

 

For all the hemming and hawing it takes to get there, Stiles almost expects Jackson to be shitty in bed.  He almost expects Jackson to back down when Stiles pulls off his jeans, one leg at a time, and reveals that he was never wearing any underwear.  He expects that Jackson will fumble with Stiles’ dick right there in front of him, open and chubbed up just from fighting with Jackson.  He expects Jackson to be embarrassed or shameful or tentative, to complain with Stiles’ dick in his hand, and then his mouth.

There’s nothing that could’ve prepared Stiles for what Jackson’s actually like.  Jackson touches Stiles’ dick like a man on a mission, knowledgeable and practiced, and it honestly should be the least sexy thing ever, should feel rote.  But Jackson looks hungry for Stiles’ dick in a way Stiles can’t remember having seen with other clients, or even on Jackson’s own face.  Jackson’s hand feels clammy around Stiles’ dick, but Jackson knows what to do, knows where to touch to make Stiles’ knees feel weak.  Stiles knows it’s never taken much to get him turned on, which is one of the reasons he’s great at his job.  He can’t deny that even if Jackson was doing everything wrong, he’d still probably be turned on by the sheer fact of the dude he hated for most of high school, the guy he envied more than anyone, going down to his knees and licking his lips, preparing to swallow down Stiles’ dick.

“Are you seriously gonna blow me in your kitchen?” Stiles asks.  He’s starting to think maybe he’s going to need to sit down for this, but he doesn’t want to break first.

“I want you to fuck my throat,” Jackson responds, which isn’t an answer at all, and leaves Stiles even more unstable than before.

He doesn’t have much time to recover before there’s a mouth on him, spit slick, plush lips sliding down over the head of Stiles’ cock.  Stiles feels a little bit like he’s feeling everything in high definition, like the extra senses Scott always claims he has when he’s stoned.  Stiles can see every one of the freckles smudged onto Jackson’s face, scattered across his cheeks and nose and standing out in high relief in the fluorescent light.  Stiles can see the way Jackson’s eyelashes leave the smallest lines of shadows across his cheeks when Jackson’s eyes shutter shut, can feel Jackson’s first, slow swallow around Stiles’ dick, letting his body adjust.

“Jesus christ,” Stiles says, and Jackson tries to smile, has to pull off Stiles’ dick to look adequately smug.  If he weren’t a client, Stiles would swing his dick at Jackson’s face, just to knock him down a peg, to smear his own spit and slick all over Jackson’s stupid cheeks.

It occurs to Stiles that that may be something Jackson actually likes, and the idea makes him practically gleeful.

Jackson works Stiles’ dick down deeper and deeper, bobbing and sucking like it’s his happy place, like he was born for it.  Stiles lets his hand rest in Jackson’s hair, enjoying mussing up the gunk Jackson put in before Stiles came to keep it looking _pretty_.  Stiles doesn’t want Jackson to come out of this looking pretty.  He wants Jackson to look wrecked, for Jackson’s mouth to be so swollen that Danny comes home in the morning and still sees how pink and puffy they are.  He wants Jackson to wear the noises he’s trying to stifle like a badge, a whimper when Stiles’ hips jerk back and Jackson loses some of the length he made room for against the back of his throat, a moan when Stiles tugs his hair, just the briefest flash of pain that makes Jackson flush redder and makes something warm coil in Stiles’ gut.

Stiles is almost relieved when it’s time for him to fuck Jackson’s throat, when Jackson pulls off and hisses a, “ _Fuck me already_ ,” a please tacked on that Stiles didn’t ask for.  Stiles doesn’t think he can last much longer watching Jackson practically come from working himself around Stiles’ dick. As careful as Stiles is when he pushes slowly into Jackson’s mouth, feels the skin of Jackson’s lips rubbed raw around his dick, Jackson gags, and that isn’t something Stiles finds super sexy.  That’s something that helps ground Stiles, refocus him on something that isn’t wanting to spurt come all over Jackson’s face.

When Jackson starts to lose his rhythm and pull back from Stiles’ thrusts into his mouth, Stiles looks down and sees that the fly of Jackson’s pants is unzipped.  Stiles can see Jackson’s hand moving, his wrist turning, pressed against the metal of the zipper.  If this weren’t a first time, Stiles would tell him to stop just to see what he did, to see if Jackson’s hand stilled as he opened his blown-wide eyes and waited for Stiles to tell him what he could do, when he could get off.

The idea is a headrush bigger than Stiles ever could’ve imagined, and the words are on the tip of his tongue.  But Stiles glances at the kitchen timer he had borrowed, intent not to give Jackson a minute more than he had paid for, and he realizes there’s not enough time for it.  

He focuses on his own orgasm from there, fucking more shallowly, focusing on the sensations around the head of his cock.  Jackson seems to have a sense for what he’s doing, and he helps Stiles along, tonguing Stiles’ slit like filling his mouth with Stiles’ come is all he needs to be satisfied.

When Stiles finally jerks to a stop, pumping come into Jackson’s mouth, it’s almost a relief.  He sags back against the kitchen cabinets to catch his breath and watches as Jackson frantically jerks at his cock, ruining the jeans Jackson probably paid more for than Danny did for his time with Stiles.

Jackson looks like a mess, sweaty and pink and breathless, fully dressed with his hair and mouth wrecked beyond help.  Stiles doesn’t know how to feel about it; on the one hand, it’s satisfying seeing that he’s done this to Jackson, that Jackson paid him to do this for him.  On the other hand, Stiles enjoyed sex with Jackson way more than he’d like to admit.

Jackson licks his lips, the pink dragging to the corner of his mouth to catch a bit of come.  “You’re lucky I’m a werewolf,” he says, and for all the blowjobs Stiles has given, he didn’t even consider how wrecked Jackson’s voice would sound, lower and throaty.  “What kind of hooker doesn’t wear a condom?”

Stiles knows exactly where the condom is, sitting in the other pocket of his jeans, left unopened and untouched.  He’s embarrassed to have forgotten it; it’s something he’s usually strict on, because he’s not picking something up and passing it along.  He doesn’t want to admit to Jackson that he was particularly distracting, though, so he just shrugs and grabs a paper towel, gets it damp and cleans up the little that’s left to clean.

The timer runs out when Stiles is putting on his pants.  He turns it off and checks on Jackson, because sex is weird and sometimes it does weird things to people.

“What are you looking at?” Jackson says, and Stiles decides he’s probably fine, after all.

“Looks like you got what you wanted,” Stiles responds.

“You can take the stupid money back,” Jackson tells him, though it lacks the heat it might have earlier in the night.  “I’m not going to give it to you, but it’s yours.  I don’t need it.”

“Too ashamed to give it to me yourself?” he asks.  “Too embarrassed that you had to hire a hooker to get your throat fucked like you want?”

Jackson licks his lips again, but doesn’t back down.  “Maybe I just wanted someone I had someone I had collateral over.  I know your dad, and it’d be a shame if it got around that the sheriff’s son was hooking to pay for his education, wouldn’t it?”

The threat should probably scare Stiles.  From most other people it probably would be terrifying.  But Stiles knows Jackson, after all these years.  Stiles knows that it’s a front, because admitting that Jackson wanted _Stiles_ , Stiles in particular, is too much for Jackson to feel comfortable with.

“It’d be a shame if the school found out that the rising star of the lacrosse team just paid for a hooker and didn’t even need the hooker to touch him, just needed the hooker to fuck his throat for him to be jacking off for dear life,” Stiles says casually.  “Wouldn’t it?”

As long as Jackson is ashamed of what he wants, the threat works to keep things in balance.  Mutually assured destruction.  Stiles doesn’t know how long that will last, but he can feel in his gut that it will be at least another few times, enough that seeking out Stiles becomes a habit.

“Just take your money,” Jackson says, and Stiles listens.  He grabs it off the table and stuffs it in his pocket, cramming it in behind is phone.

“See you later,” he tells Jackson, just to rub salt in the wound.

They both know it’s going to happen again.

**Author's Note:**

> On tumblr [here](sleepy-skittles.tumblr.com).


End file.
